Come Back to Me
by et-spiritus-sancti
Summary: Twelve years after the sinking, Cal and Rose have a chance meeting. Oneshot.


**Come Back to Me**

By et-spiritus-sancti

DISCLAIMER: Don't own it Titanic or the characters except those who are obviously of my own creation.

Author's Note: Every once and a while I find a paragraph or a page I wrote ages ago and suddenly a oneshot emerges. Hope you enjoy, reviews are always appreciated.

***

The crashing waves were a dim reminder of times past and Cal once again grunted at his wife's chosen vacation spot. She seemed to lack a certain sensitivity to his past and merely brushed away his reluctance with a melodically placed wave of her hand. Therefore, here he was, across the country and torn away from the many comforts of his Pittsburgh mansion to dwell at a touristy beach he could have found in his own state.

But no, his dear wife said. "Beaches are different in California, my dear! The sunsets are far more desirable." Cal grunted again remembering Helen's words as he took a drag from his favored Gallaher's cigarette. Cal could not recall when he started to smoke anything besides cigars. He'd always considered the habit somewhat distasteful. He mused over the thought as he put the cigarette to his lips again and continued to survey the beach from the wooden walkway, his finely polished shoes snapping smartly as he went.  
If he were forced to admit to such, Cal would say it certainly was a beautiful landscape. The day was clear and pleasantly warm. Graying clouds far from them on the horizon promised a replenishing rain later that night. The sand was pale, soft, and free of debris. The water was clean and sparkled like a sea of diamonds in the sun. Cal watched, amused, as his children splashed in the water, making as much ruckus as children could while still trying to behave and conduct themselves civilly.

Helen was ignoring them, allowing the nanny to keep the children in check. She instead favored her book, resting with her feet up in a chaise lounge under a huge, floppy white umbrella; apparently her attention to the sun and how it was setting was not quite as gripping as before. For all the woman's imperfections he really did adore her. In his own way though. He rarely showed her affection and she didn't require nor ask for it, but it was understood that he loved her and would take care of her and the children, as was her promise to perform her wifely duties when needed.

Cal kept his distance from the water. Not because he was afraid of it, per se. It was more a fear of ghosts from the past creeping up on him and dragging him beneath the waves into their hell—to be rather blunt. He spent little time walking in the sand, watching with irritation as the granules gathered in the cuffs of his slacks. So he spent the better part of an hour traversing the piers and walkways that provided grand views of the beach.

"Quite a day isn't it?" The voice came from beside him and Cal caught the whiff of a cheap cigarette. He gave the man an annoyed sidelong glance.

"Certainly," Cal responded only half-heartedly as he took in his appearance. The man before him was of middle class. Certainly not poor, but he most likely still lived by each paycheck. He was perhaps an accountant or paper-pusher of some sort. He was wearing a typical brown tweed jacket with a tie loosely applied under his collar. His pants had some sand around the cuffs and crusted upon his knees, suggesting he might have carelessly trounced about in it. A round-edged hat sitting crooked atop his chestnut head completed his image.

"You here with all the other tourists for the holiday?" The man tossed his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it soundly, grinding it into the wood plank.

"Is it that obvious?" Cal stiffened against a brisk wind that brought with it a stronger scent of the sea. Memories blurred in his mind of champagne pouring and the glitter of a gown worn on a sumptuous figure.

The man shrugged with an easy smile that displayed surprisingly pearly teeth. "You all have that look about you. Where do you hail from?"

Cal nonchalantly gave himself a look-over in response to the comment. "East coast. This," he sighed and gestured towards the beach, "was entirely my wife's idea."

The man smirked and gave a sizeable nod in understanding. "I know those ideas all too well. That's how I ended up in Wisconsin last year learning how to dog-sled."

Cal stared at the man with a mixed expression of horror and fascination. "Dog-sledding?"

"Yeah," he stared off towards the beach and shook his head ruefully, "and ice-fishing. That woman would see me dead with all her adventures, I swear."

"Did you think to tell her 'no,' might I ask?"

The man guffawed suddenly enough for Cal to look apologetically to the passer-by-ers who made a point to stare. "Tell my little wildfire, 'no'? Hah, she would slap me. Then divorce me."

As if on cue, a woman's laugh erupted from the shore, followed by the shrieks of many children. The man winced before nodding to the scene. "There they are now."

Cal understood why he called his wife "wildfire." Though still a fair distance away, Cal could see her hair was fiery and uninhibited. She played with her several (several meaning actually five) children amongst the surf. None of her children were lucky enough to receive her head of hair, but all seemed to possess her spirit.

"She is a feisty one, but God—I'd do anything for her." Cal found such personal talk inappropriate and exhibited a slight cough. This triggered no reaction or apology from the man so Cal instead straightened his jacket and made himself ready to take his leave.

"Ah, here she comes," The man suddenly began to wipe the sand off himself and attempted to be presentable, as if he was about receive a queen.

Cal watched the woman approach as the man continued to groom himself by running his hand through his hair several times. He just began to make out her face when the man stuck his rough-skinned hand in his view.

"Well it was certainly a pleasure mister…"

Cal gingerly shook his hand. "Hockley."

"Hockley, right. I'm Calvert. John Calvert. Ah, wait, before you go," John opened his tweed jacket and rummaged through its apparently many pockets, muttering as he went before he pulled out a bent card that he had to wipe sand away from, "If you're ever in California again and you get into any legal trouble, I—well I'm sure by the looks of you that you have a whole army of hoity-toity lawyers, but you know, just in case they're all sick and you need one, go ahead and take my card." Cal plucked it cautiously from John's hand, "And new clients always have a discounted first session." John nodded enthusiastically as Cal pocketed the offensive paper.

"It's appreciated Mr. Calvert, though I'm sure—"

"Darling!"

It was involuntary. Cal responded to that voice as quickly as John did. Every muscle in Cal's body twitched in alarm, fright, and oddly joy at the ringing sound of that voice. In an instant he felt ten years younger and powerful—powerful knowing he had the most beautiful and intelligent woman of stature on the planet. But the high Cal was experiencing plummeted suddenly and was replaced with an icy, morbid grip on his heart. The fingers clenched harder about him when she caught his eye. Her eyes, still cold and wild as he remembered pierced his own with a savage, hard stare. Cal felt his insides turn into an icy soup, as if she were a tarantula that sank her fangs into him and injected her venom. He would have crumbled to his knees from shock if he hadn't been frozen with fear.

John interrupted the trance, apparently completely ignorant of the recognition. "Here she is, Mr. Hockley. She's from the east coast too, you both should swap stories."

Rose, or her eerie doppelganger, glanced at her husband and gave him a half-hearted smile. "Gather the children, will you darling?" John nodded and planted a kiss soundly on her reddened cheek before tipping his hat to Cal.

"Remember that discount!" Cal barely gave John a nod of acknowledgement as he kept his eyes glued to the ghost before him. John walked away, whistling as he went and checking his hat to the ladies he passed, completely unaware of the storm he just avoided. Meanwhile, a fair minute passed between Cal and Rose, each glaring at the other with indiscernible expressions.

She was still so beautiful. Age had merely enhanced her features. She was mature and grand, with part of her hair pinned back, fiery curls dancing before her expressionless face. Her clothes were not those made for an American princess. She wore mediocre attire at best. The material of her skirt rustled quietly as the wind played with it and the top three buttons of her navy-blue blouse were undone, allowing Cal a glimpse at her still porcelain skin. After a long moment, Cal could finally work the muscles of his mouth to speak.

"You're…here." Cal took a step forward, his hand outstretched. This triggered Rose to hastily take a full step back. Cal realized his error and halted. He just wanted to touch her though. Even with only a fingertip. She still glared at him as if he were a mad dog about to strike.

"Please don't," she whispered, her tone pleading and harsh.

Cal couldn't help but make a short, incredulous laugh. "Don't? Don't what? You would desire me to act normally when I'm standing here telling myself that you're dead?"

She chose her words carefully, finally looking away from him to gaze at her shoes. "Rose DeWitt-Bukater _is_ dead, Cal."

He suddenly felt anger boil inside of him. "Dead? No. She's standing in front of me. Disguising herself as a middle-class housewife. Goddamn it Rose, what have you done?"

She sprung to life suddenly and her head shot up. The glare she confronted him with reminded Cal of an angry goddess. "You have no right to judge me."

Cal felt his hands clench at her words. He welcomed that surge of anger he rarely experienced anymore. "Oh, I don't? What would you have me do, Rose?"

Her eyes glossed over and she looked away from him towards the beach. "Leave. Go to your family and leave me to mine."

"So that's how you will leave it? You won't even ask of your mother?"

Her cheeks reddened and the storm in her eyes grew darker. "I hope she is enjoying the sugar-plum life you set up for her."

Cal's hand twitched into a fist. She saw it and crossed her arms smugly. "Still having anger issues, Cal?"

He swallowed and closed the distance between them. Rose did not budge but kept her arms against her chest defensively. Her defiance only fueled his growing fury. "You haven't a clue what's happened in the last twelve years. After Titanic, and the trials and all the questioning, your mother showed signs of absolute insanity," Cal let this sink in, waiting for a response. Rose stuck out her chin but did not seem swayed, so he continued, "She repeatedly spoke of you as if you were alive. Called your name. Became inconsolable, convinced you were still here. After a year of this, it became clear she could not live alone with just servants. She often left her room during the night, searching the neighborhood for you. I found her in her room once, with a butter knife scraping away at her wrists, blood everywhere."

By now, Rose had begun to hug her arms to herself, her eyes reddening and eventually she turned away. "I searched all over the eastern seaboard looking for the best psychiatric institution. Have you ever been in one of those hospitals, Rose? Do you know what kind of people are there? Your mother is one of them now—"

"Stop it, Cal."

"She can't bathe or even feed herself. All she does is mumble things about you—"

The crisp sound of skin against skin drew curious stares from the people that passed them. Cal felt the tingling of his cheek and he touched it, half-expecting blood. His gaze rested on Rose, whose face was red and slightly contorted. A single stream of tears flowed down her cheek and she glanced down at the hand she had used to strike him.

"I'm sorry." She whispered and rubbed at her hand.

He slightly shook his head. "No, it—I understand," He backed away a few steps, running a hand through his graying hair, "However, I will never understand why you left us. I would have settled for you breaking our engagement. But your 'death' was…unacceptable."

Rose made a movement as if she were to speak, then promptly shut her mouth. Cal figured there wasn't any more to say between them. The sun was setting fast, illuminating her features. He couldn't look at her a minute more. Turning to the beach, he observed Helen. She searched for him by craning her neck to see up and down the shoreline. She must have gotten her fill of the outdoors for the day.

Cal straightened his frame and motioned to the beach. "I should go back," he gesticulated with his hand, trying to find the right parting words for such an odd situation, "Enjoy your life…Rose." She said nothing, so Cal sighed and decided to take his leave.

"They're so small."

Cal halted and turned back to her. Her gaze was past him and settled on the youngest Hockley generation.

He made an exasperated sigh, simply wanting to be as far away from this ghost as possible. "They're three and five. What of it?"

Rose turned back to him, her face full of confusion. "Your wife. She's hardly into her twenties. My God, Cal, it's been twelve years, don't tell me she is your first wife. They are your first children?"

Cal contemplated simply walking away from her, pretending this encounter hadn't happened and going back to his family. He also strongly considered finding a blunt object and beating her to death with it. He almost decided to grasp her to him and kiss her—just once before she would certainly wriggle out of his arms and punch his teeth in. Before any of that entered into his true consciousness, Cal decided perhaps the truth would be sufficient. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and concentrated on his shoes, lightly nudging the crushed cigarette Calvert had left behind.

"Apparently, Rose, I haven't quite mastered the art of forgetting lovers."

Perhaps he had worded the phrase poorly, for Rose looked as if she might slap him again. "How dare you, Cal. I loved Jack. I still do. I love John just as much—"

"I'm not talking about them, Rose," He suddenly got close to her. Close enough to detect her scent—as beautiful and pure as he could remember. She did not move away, "During _any_ time in our engagement, did you ever love me?"

She narrowed her glare at him. "Oh. As you loved me?"

"You really question my love for you? I gave you everything! You were treated like a queen."

Her eyes were ablaze once more. "I was treated like a prize heifer."

Cal made an incredulous laugh. "You really want to look at it that way? I didn't need you, Rose. You came with nothing but debt. But that didn't matter to me, because I loved you the moment I saw you."

Their tempers were now flaring again and neither paid attention to the people near them. "Oh really? Did you love me when you screamed or when you hit me?"

"Ah, I'm sorry about that, I thought it was rather appropriate at the time since my fiancée was cavorting with a homeless finger-painter!"

"Jack was an artist—"

"Damn you, Rose. I don't know what I could have done differently to make you happy. For some reason I can't suit your taste. I can't be an ice fisherman or a third class lawyer. But I loved you. And when I was finally home, the mere suggestion of finding another wife was repulsive to me."

She stared at him, her expression puzzled yet a light glowed behind her eyes. A glow of understanding, or perhaps regret. "So…you waited?"

"I did more than that. I spent thousands of dollars in private investigators from all over the states. Had your face and a list of perspective names in their hands," Cal was satisfied with her reactions to everything he said. She looked slightly mortified, "I searched for years."

He knew he put Rose in a position now. She could walk away from him. Or she could actually feel guilty. Cal guessed by her expression that she was the latter. Her eyes were now glossed over. She would not cry in front of him though. No more than a few tears. He would be shocked if she did.

She only found enough voice to whisper. "You didn't think I was dead?"

Cal squared his shoulders and looked out at the sea. "Sometimes those in mourning are also full of hope."

Cal watched his family. The children sat with their mother, the nanny drying them off as they chattered. Helen was still searching for him, never thinking to look behind her. His glance then shifted to Rose's family. All five of her children were tromping and rolling about in the sand with their father, who seemed to have forgotten about his wife's orders.

Cal didn't realize that Rose had suddenly gotten close to him. He almost pulled away when she took his hand. Her skin still so soft. Cal never thought a housewife could ever have soft hands. He closed his eyes and could clearly picture her, twelve years earlier, her hand securely in his. Everything perfect. Her touch brought back memories far stronger than any scent could. He could feel the cool smoothness of a ring as he slid it on her perfect finger. Her splendid lips that he took such pleasure in kissing. Her body against his when they made love. Cal opened his eyes and was startled to see her eyes seemingly expressing what he felt.

"I'm not sure if it helps anything, Cal. But if I hadn't met Jack, that would be me down there with our children. I—I did love you."

Cal felt a twisting in his gut. He wished she hadn't said that. "Apparently, it just wasn't enough."

She didn't take her eyes away from him. Instead, she squeezed his hand. Cal's stomach plummeted. It was an intimate action that he would've never thought Rose would remember. A simple squeeze of his hand was her silent request for a kiss. He did not respond at first, fearing he misinterpreted the gesture from so long ago. She must have gauged his reaction and she made a half smile.

"I do believe I just requested something from you, Mr. Hockley."

Without hesitation, Cal pulled her to him, losing his hand inside her curly red locks. He wanted to kiss her passionately and as long as she would allow. However a pang in his heart stopped him, inches from her lips, and he suddenly recalled the only woman he had exchanged vows with. The woman who was searching for him this very moment.

His time with Rose had ended long ago. A piece of him went down with that ship, and it laid with the other dead. He could not steal this kiss from her. He could not unbury the dead. Yet he felt her warm breath on him. Smelled her sweet scent. Now the scent of Rose Calvert. His hand fell from her hair. His hand on the small of her back dropped away as they still stood close. Shadows of what they might have been. Rose said nothing. She only stared with as much longing as he felt.

He gently took her hand once more. "Rose. I am grateful I have finally been able to say goodbye to you," Cal brought her lily-white hand to his lips and gently rested the smallest of a kiss upon it.

When her hand was returned to her, she raised it to his face, caressing his cheek. "Goodbye, Cal," She whispered. With a final stroke of his cheek, Rose turned away from him and began to walk back to her family. Cal watched her the entire time, observing how she still strolled like a first class woman, her head held high. He watched her gather her children and take her husband's hand. And for the second, and last time in his life, he watched her walk away from him.

She never looked back. And this time, neither would he.


End file.
